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on seeing her mother-in-law the Marquise tie Livry, who now stood before them. “ Are you satisfied, sir,” said she, turning to D’Herbanne, “ I am ruined 1” “ You are astonished to see me,” said the Marquise, in a severe tone ; “ but I am no less so to find you here, madame; for though an anonymous letter stated such was the fact, it was necessary to see it with my own eyes to make it possible to believe it.” “An anonymous letter! Alas ! then I have enemies.” “ On the contrary, it is a service has been rendered you. There, madame, see to which of your fiiends-r-pet haps 1 should say lov ers —you are indebted on this occasion.” Pauline tremblingly threw her eyes over the note that the Marquise handed her, and recognised the writing of Madame de Mel couit. The note ran thus: “ The Hotel de France is at this moment about to be visited by a search-warrant — Pauline is there. The Marquise de Livry is the only person who can save her, without M. de Livry being informed of it.” “ Come.” continued the Marquise, “ come, madame, follow me. There ought to he— the hostess, who happily has received many favors from my family, tells me —a door which opens from that room to a hack stairs, and of which she lias given me the key.— We will go out by that door, and in that way, my son shall not be dishonored in the eyes of the world.” “ Unhappy being that lam,” murmured Pauline, covering her face with her hands. D’Herbanne at last thought it incumbent on him to speak. “ Madame,” said ho, “ I can swear before you, to the conduct of your daughter-in law.” “ Sir,” replied the Marquise, drily, “I had not the honor of addressing you then turning to Pauline, she said —“Go, madame, go; if yon have any explanations to give, this is not the place to give them.” Pauline raised her head, dried her eyes, and then with a tone of desperate firmness said— “ Yes, madame ; on the contrary it is here —in the presence of this man that l must justify myself. No matter how horrible be the truth, I prefer to tell it you, than allow you to think of me as you do. It weighs upon my heart —it oppresses me —it chokes me. I must te’l it, or 1 die. No, nridame, I am no more capahloof dccieving you than of deceiving your son.” “ What did you say ?” replied the Mar quise, sneeringly. “ I say,” persisted Pauline, “that this man holds in his hands my honor, which is that of Ferdinand —and the life of Ferdinand, which is mine; and that it is to save both one and the other, that I have come here.” “ What are you doing 1” .interrupted D’- Herbanne impatiently. “Let me speak, sir,” said Pauline, in an imperative manner. “It is too late now, and it is you who wished it—every body must know it. Pei haps, madam, you can remember when I told you my history, that I was confused, abashed—that I could not go on. Then Ferdinand came to my relief; but to deceive you, he told you about an old friend of my father’s —the Duchess of L—. It was not with her I went to England; it was with that man.” Here the old lady could scarcely suppress her indignation, and Pauline, pale and trem bling, coa-,-.>* fur a moment, hut soon con tinued— “ By what means I was ruined would be too long to toll you. Young, ignorant of the world, with no other riches than an ed ucation far above my station; and, worse than all, sold by her who should have pro tected me. 1 did not awake until after my fall, when it was too late; and, heaven knows 1 would not have survived my shame, hut for the little being that was dependant upon me. When your son met me at the Duchess of L ’s, I had been separated two years from that man; 1 preferred labor and misery to the shame of living with him. For his misfortune—for mine—how much for mine!—your son loved me. More in dulgent to me than 1 was to myself, lu; insis ted on it, that I had atoned for my fault by my remorse ar.d tears; and lie told me that repentance like mine was sufficient to prove me virtuous. 1 know I should have fled from him to save him from himself. But what could Ido ?—I loved him. I know that in accepting his name, l committed a still greater error than my first; hut 1 would have been more than woman to resist such love as his. Now, madam, I have told you all; perhaps my confession will prove to you that I am not unworthy your esteem. Your son is dearer to me than all the world. You cannot suppose that I could forget my love to him. which, alas, is now iny only virtue. 1 have told you all my faults—you will not accuse me of crime.” This recital had made a visible impression on the Marquise ; but there was one point on which she was not satisfied ; and she could not avoid saying— “But after having been so long a time without seeing this gentleman, what motive could be sufficient strong to bring you here!” “ Alas, madame, be camo to demand my son—the child M. de Livry bad named his, and you were about to call yours. You can conceive all the consequences of such a step. What would the world say ? What would Ferdinand think ? Ferdinand, who should learn at the same time, that 1 had seen him whom lie believed dead—him whom lie de tests for the past, and who now threatens him for the present and for the future. It was to ask mercy of that man 1 came here, and 1 have not obtained it.” “ Does she speak the truth, sir l” said the Marquise to DTlerbanne. “ Madame de Livry should have added that it is my uncle who demands my son, and not I,” replied D’Herbanne, quietly. “And if you do not obtain him !” “ Then, madame, I shall be forced to use my rights.” “ Your rights ! pray what at e they 1 that you abandoned liim for five years.” “ My rights, madame, are in a correspon dence which I have complete in my bands —letters written by your daughter-in-law, signed by her hand; if they force me to bring the matter into court, it will be easy for me to prove that the mother of my son, now Cointesse de Livry, is no other than Pauline Butler.” “ Pauline Butler !” cried the Marquise, passionately, laying her hand on her daugh ter-in-law’s arm ; “ what! and you are Pau line Butler!” The young woman bowed tremblingly before her. “ Yes, inadame,” said she, dark-red from shame; “ yes, 1 am that unhappy creature. Yes, it is true; rather than bring disgrace upon the humble but honest name of my father, 1 assumed a foreign name. I would not, even in my guilt, be supposed a French woman.” “ But,” said the Marquise, “if you ho Pauline Butler, his name must also be a false one. He is D’Herbanne !” Pauline bowed her head in assent. “ D’Herbanne !” cried the Marquise ; “ the justice of heaven itself lias brought him hither. Lift up your head, madame; this man has dared to make terms with us —it is for me to dictate to him.” A smile of mockery curled D’Herbanne’s lip, and was his only answer. “ Oh, sir,” cried the Marquise, dropping j her voice into a tone of clear distinctness, “ mistake me not; not in myname do I make this threat, but in that of your victim—Ma dame de Lostange, at this moment in Tou louse on her way to Bayonne, to acquaint your uncle with a certain transaction you are well informed on. You threaten us with cx- I posure in open court —we accept tlfe chal j lenge. If you have in your possession my daughter-in-law’s letters, M. de Lostange has others of yours ; and let me add, that there are such tilings as men call speculation on the ‘ Bourse’—which the judges of the | land inay designate by another title—which I will not utter. I see you understand me: follow me, sir. It should not be before my daughler-in-law this interview should take place, and you shall learn what I require of you.” At the same moment she seized D’Her banne’s arm, and hurried him into the ad joining room before he, pale and horror struck, could utter a word in reply. Scarcely had they gone, when Pauline fell upon her knees, and, burying her head between her hands, poured forth her prayer of thankfulness. She remained thus for some time, when on lifting her eyes, they fell upon the figure of Ferdinand de Livry, who, pale and with a haggard look, gazed on her in silence. “ Ferdinand,” cried she, in a voice of agony. “ M. de Livry threw on her one look of withering contempt, and then, in an accent of the deepest bitterness, said—“ What! you here—you in this man’s room! If you had not uttered my name, I would not have believed my eyes. It is but a few hours since that with that, very voice you swore to me that you loved me, and that you were innocent. How you must have laughed at my credulity.” “ Ferdinand,” said she, sadly, “ I am not at liberty to speak, nor are you in a condi tion to hear me. Your passion will make you say that which yOJI will repent all your life, and which I never c. q n forget. Give me your arm—let us leave this.” “ No, madame,” replied de Livry, with a roar of passion, “ you shall stay. All! your lover, pet haps, is listening to us—be it so.’ before I tell him he is a coward, I rejoice that he knows what I think of you.” “Enough, enough,” stammered Pauline; “ do not say more.” “ Ah ! it is for his life you fear.” “Alas! I came hither to protect yours. Ask no more, hut lead me home. -I ap peal to your mother if she believes me guil y” “ You hope then thus to give your lover time to escape!” “ Sir!” “ When did you know this man—before or since your marriage ! Answer me this question.” “Oh !” cried Pauline, in a voice of agony, “ have mercy on me.” “ Yet what matters it,” continued de Liv ry, with passion ; “ in either case you have deceived me. I might have expected it; and this is the worthy recompense of every I sacrifice l have made for you. beginning with my honor. When 1 married you I for got all. Ido not complain. I have but what 1 deserve. But you —you, madame, I now repeat your own words : ‘There is no name for your infamy.’ ” At this moment the endurance with which she so long bore up against the unjust re proaches of her husband at once gave way, her teaiful eyes became suddenly dry, her trembling lips grew steady, and in a tone of firmness she said—“ This is too much. I care not what inay be the consequences ; I must now justify myself. Stay, sir, stay; it is your turn to listen to me. Ferdinand,” add ed she,drawing still closer to him, “ to prove my innocence, I need but speak one word, but I warn yon, it is a dreadful word, which once spoken will render all happiness im possible ; a man’s life bangs on it. Do you still demand it ?” “ I do,” said de Livry, with a hollow voice. “Be it so. The report which announced I D’Herhatine’a death was untrue. He is i alive. 1 came hither to implore him to leave j me my child.” “ What! D’Herbanne!” cried Ferdi- I natid ; “ that man, lie still lives! and you, I Pauline, you are not deceiving me ; you ] could not do so. What liaVe I said ! what l have I done ? Can you forgive me 1” “ Yes, Ferdinand, I forgive you, and I love you, and I forgive all that is pastand as she spoke she fell into his arms. “ And now,” said Ferdinand, endeavor ing totear himself from her embrace, “my part begins.” As he spoke, the Marquise entered the room. “1 said,” cried Pauline, “your mother ! should he my judge.” “ Ferdinand,” said the Marquise, as she kissed her forehead, “ this is still my daugh ter.” “ And you still my own dear mother,” said M. de Livry ; “ be kind to and comfort each other. Farewell.” • Pauline bowed her head. “ My son,” replied the Marquise, “ we j are saved ! There are all your wife’s letters —and us to M. de Fontenay, I can le ly on his silence.” j “ What signifies his silence I” cried Fer dinand, passionately ; “what care I for these SXDUVKIIIiRS! SB U 8 <O-IB IL lb ASt 7 letters 1 It is his life I want. Where is he? where is he ?” ” Gone,” said the Marquise. “Gone !” “ For ever. He is never to return to Toulouse—never to enter France.” “And you supposed that I could not fol low him ! So long as that man lives l cannot taste of happiness; nor is Pauline avenged. Hold mo not!” As he spoke, a servant of the hotel enter ed the room—his face pale and haggard. “M. de Fontenay !” cried he—“ where is M. de Fontenay ? The horses are ready and he can’t he found anywhere. At the very instant of his departure a gentleman came for him, and since that, he is nowhere to he found.” “Oh,” said Ferdinand, “let me try if I can’t find him.” As he spoke, the double crash of fire-arms was heard from the garden behind the hotel. A cry hurst forth from Pauline and her mother-in-law. “He has killed himself!” cried she. .. “ No. There were two shots,” said Fer dinand : “it was a duel. Who has dared to take my place ?” He tore open the shutter, and by the deal moonlight, which rendered every object palpable as the sun at noonday, M. de Liv ry saw beneath him in the garden the figure of Clodion, standing, pistol in hand, above the body of a man, who lay stretched upon the ground, his face turned upwards towards the blue sky. “ What ! is it you, Clodion ?” cried De Livry. “ Fool! what have you done ?” “ A piece of awkwardness,” said he cold ly. “ I have forced this M. de Fontenay in to a duel, and, without intending it, have contrived to hit him.” “ Is he wounded ?” cried Ferdinand, has tily. “ Dead,” said the other. “ Dead !” repeated the three, in accents of horror, and a silence sad and awful fol lowed the words. At last Ferdinand at last drew near his wife and said— “ Your son is mine—lie shall never leave us.” “ What!” cried Clodion, entering, abrupt ly—“ What ! then it was not Madame de Melcourt, after all ?” “ Hush, nephew!” said the Marquise— “ we have been all mistaken.” * * * * In about two months later, M. Clodion Dufour led a blushing bride to tlie altar of St. Sernin—no other than the handsome widow, Madame de Melcourt. The unimpeachable accuracy of his wed ding costume was the admiration of all Tou louse. The report even goes, that lie was the first person who wore his hair “ en Ti tus,” probably in compliment to the good emperor, because, like him, “he had much to forgive.” ©UD©Q M h (L □ For the “Southern Miscellany.” THE VON SLAUS FAMILY. Deidrich Von Slaus was hard of hearing, and so was Mr. Von Slaus, and though they loved and married partly on that account, yet ibis was not the only congeniality be tween them —in action they were tlie same, in mind tite same?, and in temperament the same. They had knotvn each other from their earliest recollection ; an.'? though noth ing definite had ever passed between them on the subject, yet it was generally unuC. I '- stood by their acquaintances that they were born for each other—and they believed it. They were so well satisfied on that head, that they never troubled their heads about it—each looking forward to the time when Deidrich should be so established in the world as to he able to support a matrimonial establishment. The time arrived. Deidrich had gather ed together a sufficient stock of miscellane ous plunder to fill a small store in Falim street, (not far from the spot where once stood an old tread-mill,) and after having procured the necessary articles of household and kitchen furniture, which he did at odd times, and rainy days, when he had little or nothing to do in the shop. He announced his state of readiness to his Caty, who re ceived the intelligence with the same de gree of characteristic indifference with which it was announced. “ I’rn all fixed, Caty,” says lie : “ Well, I’m ready, Deidrich,” re plied she, and tucking up her hair and throw ing on her shawl, they set off'to the preach er’s house where the matrimonial knot was tied hard and fast. Not a word passed be tween them, either going or returning, until Mrs. Von Slaus was installed in her new home, in the rear of the shop. Here they both found their tongues ; but owing to the inconvenience attending their conversation, from having to speak very loud, they man aged to dispense with the use of many words, and to makesigns and lookstheirmedium'of conversation. Caty cried a little, andDeid rich’s countenance relapsed into something between a look of satisfaction and a smile ; but he never smiled outright but once in bis life. We leave them seated by the bridal hearth, and pass over a series of some eight or ten years. * # # * # Savannah had changed materially in the interim. Many of Deidrich’s contempora ries had grown rich—some had grown poor again—all had changed but Deidrich and his wife. They were the same ; the shop was the same; the little back-room was the same. Time had wrought no changes in the Von Slaus family, save that now there were some three or four little Von Slaus tumil ling about, and squalling, in the back-yard, | or hanging to the skirts of Mrs. Von Slaus as she proceeded with her household drudg ery—which she had perfojmed from the first, rather than suffer the confusion and vexation j of either understanding, or making herself | understood by a “ dumb nigger,” as she j called the species. Mrs. Von Slaus was a tidy woman, of few j words; her domestic affairs progressed j smoothly ; she never stormed herself, or ! heard the storming of others. Her children never cried to trouble her, though they often opened their mouths very wide, and made very ugly faces, in her presence. Mr. Von I Slaus kept the shop, read the paper, attend | ed auctions, and smoked his pipe. He could generally sec what people wanted, and when it came to haggling übout prices lie could hear a little ; but for the most part, the noise of the world disturbed him very little; in deed, he was known to distinguish the ring j of a half dollar when he did not hear the toll ing of the fire-bell. He was remarkable for punctuality, regularity and industry, so far as watching the shop and waiting on custo mers was concerned. On week-days he rose with the sun, and though he was never known to let his business drive him from bis uni form measured gait, yet he drove a thriving business,late and early. On Saturdays, Mrs. Von Slaus put things to rights in the rear, while Mr. Von Slaus, with a pondrous brush broom. kept for the purpose, swept the pave ment in front, removed his weather-beaten show goods, locked and bolted the doors, counted his money, and closed the business of the week. Before retiring, (and after the children were deposited in their bunks,) he usually read a chapter in his Bible to him self, while his wife read her prayer hook ; after which she read a chapter and hea pray er, and, in silence, they retired for the night. In the morning the same process was repeat ed until Church-time, when they usually at tended the morning service. After dinner, it was their custom to take an airing upon the Bay—on which occasions they usually took the little Von Slauses with them to see the ships, and the river, and the steam-boats* for which they had a great taste. Mr. and Mrs. Von Slaus would walk slow ly along, side by side, and if no one was near, would occasionally utter a word to each other ; but usually their “ social con verse” was carried on by means of nods and winks and other significant signs which long habit bad made familiar. The little Von Slaus were in the habit of straggling off and getting lost before they were missed, which often interrupted their enjoyment; to obvi ate the recurrence of these annoyances, and for the accommodation of his children, Deid ricli had constructed a go-cart, into which ho packed Yilliam, Jacob and Susanna, the three youngest, and drew them after him in perfect security. In this manner Mr. Von Slaus anti his faithful spouse vvete wont to take their holiday recreations ; on which oc casions they jogged along in social silence, without so much as heeding the little ones, from the time they started until they return ed, except that lie occasionally veered a lit tle from his straight course in order to avoid a rough place in the pavement, which might jostle his precious cargo. ~ * The incident which our engraving is in tended to illustrate occurred in this wise : Deidrich, with his wife and his wagon load of babies, had strayed far from home, to the region of the Old Fort, and after whiling away an hour or so.i'rt the neighborhood,were returning home, deeply engaged in their mute communion, when, on pass.’Pg over a part of the ground that was considerably rough and broken, the hind axle gave way, precipitating the incumbent generation of little Von Slauses on to the ground. Like their parents, the little ones were slow to break silence, though when they got their pipes pitched, the neighbors were of the opinion that they could squall as well as the best. On went the stately Deidrich and his wife, deaf alike to the clatter of the broken wagon, or the loud wailing of the deserted trio, who now set up a most doierous con cert. On trudged the unconscious parents. People who met them, stared and laughed to see the empty wagon trailing behind ; some half suspected the catastrophe, while others were filled with wonder at the strange exhibition. One or two of tlieir acquain tances ventured to enquire about it.butDeid ricli was unusually deaf, and could hear neither laughing or questions. On arriving at his own door, himself and wife both turn ed to help out tho “ dear leetle toadies,” as they called them ; when, on surveying the wrecked and empty vehicle, they both start ed back aghast, and stood gazing into each other’s faces for some minutes the pictures of amazement and tenor. At length Deid rich was enabled to exclaim, “ Mine Got, Caty!” “ Where is the childers, Deitrich ?” was the anxious mother’s reply. Then there was another pause of some minutes, in which they looked unutterable things, such as fear, suspicion, doubt and despair. “Mine Got,” repeated Deidrich, “where isli I spilled dem ?” and away he started on the back-track, in a pace, and with an ani mation of countenance that betrayed the intense anxiety of his mind. Poor Caty could not resist the natural im pulse to follow. She was another being ; every sense was quickened in both, and the good couple were seen to hasten down Fulim street, past “ Battle Row,” and along the Bay towards the Fort, in a gait such as they had never before been known to practice by their old acquaintances. Os every one that passed, Deidrich hurriedly enquired, “ Did you see mine childers ?” but scarce pausing to hear the reply, he passed on till he came • near to the Mariner’s Church before lie was able to derive any information concerning them. Here he met a waggish sort of a customer, who had been loitering about in the neighborhood, and who had witnessed the spilling of the little Von Slaus— “ Is you seed mine childers ?” enquired Deidrich, his every feature contorted into the shape of an interrogation mark. “ Were there three of them 1” “ Yaw.” “ With red clothes ?” “ Yaw !” “ Little ones : two boys and a girl ?” “ Yaw—yaw!” replied Deidrich eagerly. “ Yes, I saw some hogs about to eat them up, down at the Fort,” replied the other, very coldly. “ I expect they are finished by this time.” Deidrich did not hear the concluding re mark, but exclaiming, “ Ach ! Gott im Him mel!—die Siiue such noch !” he redoubled bis pace in the direction of the Fort. The information caused Caty to gasp for breath. Broken English no longer answer ed as a medium for the expression of her agonizing thoughts; but faultering as she spoke, she exclaimed, “ Lauf, Deidrich, Inuf! mit alien deinen Kriiften ! O, neine at men Kinder!” Away flew Deidrich, his good spouse in close pursuit; and such was the intensity of their parental solicitude that they were en abled to hear the cries of tlieir little ones long before they reached the spot where they had been so unceremoniously “dumped.” It was a rapturous meeting : an era in the lives of the Von Slaus. Deidrich, unable to restrain his joyous emotions at finding his little progeny all grouped together, safe and sound, on the ground upon which they had been left, practising one of those little do mestic concerts, in which children are wont to indulge on such occasions, for once in his life smiled aloud ; “ Gome to yer sadder, boor leetle toadies; de vagon vas done broke, and you vas tura ple on de grount vor de big hocks to coine eat you ; boor leetle vones J” But this affectionate speech was nothing to I hat of Mrs. Von Slaus, who all the while ran on in a strain of hysterical delight—half in broken English, half in her mother tongue —while she grasped them up one af ter the other, and impressed a mother’s kiss upon their tear-bedewed faces. Then, ta king the youngest in her arms, Deidrich caught up the other two, and home they trudged with tlieir precious burthens, not trusting them out of their arms until they were once more safely under the paternal roof. The circumstance is said to have wrought a decided improvement, both men tal and physical, in the good Dutchman and his wife for the balance of their days. ALLIGATOR. Savannah, Georgia. For the “Southern Miscellany.” “ GEORGIA ILLUSTRATED”—THE “ ORION.” Mr. Editor : A periodical, when issued, becomes the property of the public, atul any one has the right to scan and criticise its contents. If it be worthy the public praise and patronage, let these be cheerfully award ed ; if not, let them be withheld, and the public condemnation and censure fearlessly given. 1 bold the doctrine, that no man should be allowed, without rebuke, to vio late his contracts. In the commercial world the forfeiture of a contract amounts to the loss of credit; and even while I write, our own Government is suffering under the lash of European journals—and justly too—be cause some of our States have repudiated their debts, and others liavs failed in the per formance of their contracts. The same rule should be applied in the World of Letters; the same doctrine should be inculcated a mong literary journalists, and editors of pe riodicals, ct id, omne genus. Our age has been dubbed the “ age of humbugs,” and in no depaitment of the va ried pursuits of men has the propriety of the christening been more clearly proven, than in the department of letters ; atul no class, in my humble judgment, are more obnox ious to the charge of humbuggery than the “ getting up” of a great many of the week lies and monthlies of the day. There are a few honorable and noble exceptions, whose works are far above the vapid mass of stuff’ ever issuing from the press, deluging our land, end draining our purses. But I did not set out to write an essay, but simply to call the attention of the public to the work or works, the titles of which stand at the head of this article ; and now, since the two volumes are closed, and the work, for the present, suspended, I have thought it would be a matter of some little interest to the patrons of “ Georgia Illus trated” to enquire, whether tlie work j|as re ceived, is such an one as they had a right to expect ? Whether they have in good faith received what they trustingly paid for in ad vance ? Whether the terms, on the part of the editor, have been fulfilled? and wheth er the editor lias, or has not, violated pledg es frequently and voluntarily made ? These questions they have a right to ask, and to demand answers ; and though they may not have the legal right to arraign the defaulter before a judicial tribunal of the country, in an action for damages, on account of edito rial laches, still I bold the right a just one to investigate, before the public, the fulfil ment, or neglect, of promises made prospect ively by an editor, upon which promises sub scriptions are taken and money received.— If these promises are kept on bis part, the contract is fulfilled, and the obligation ceas es ; if not, then we have a right to enquire into the causes which have led to the failure. If he could not do what he promised, from causes subsequently occurring over which he could not exercise control, he may he un fortunate, but is blameless. If he could, but would not, then he is a swindler to all in tents and purposes, and deserves the exe cration of the public. I shall now proceed to examine into the facts connected with the publication of “Georgia Illustrated,” and endeavor to as certain how nearly these accord with the pro fessions made on the part of the editor. In the year 1840, the prospectus for a “ New work to be entitled Georgia Illustrated, in a series of original views, engraved on steel, with letter press descriptions,” was publish ed, the object of which work was—as may be seen from the prospectus — professedly the illustration of the scenery of Georgia.— Two of the conditions — or promises —were, Ist. “ Georgia Illustrated will be issued in monthly parts,” &c. 2d. “ Each part will contain two highly finished engravings of Georgia Scenery,” See., “Price, five dollars, in advance. I subscribed, or rather paid in advance, for “Georgia Illustrated”—to be illustrated yet J —expecting, as I had a right to do, that I should receive one each month for twelve months. Well, on the first of January, ’4l the first number was issued, in which the editor, in his “Salutatory,” congratulates his patrons on the publication of number one, and takes occasion to inform them that he “ has the vanity to be pleased with the result of his labors.” Os this self-adulation Ido not complain. The sample he gave us of the work was a good one ; and we believ ed the other parts would be as fine. No. 2, for February, appeared in March as well as I now recollect, in which theedi tor says, in reference to his prospects, ty e are enabled to inform our friends that our expectations of success were not too san guine.” “Our course is right onward.” Humph! No number in March ! none in April ff none in May!!! none in June !!!! none in July !!!!! In August, the third and fourth parts —united—make their appearance, in which, the editor says, his engagements in February were such that he could not make preparations for the timely issue of the third part, but that it should “ be issued with part four in Apr il;” and yet strange to say these did not make their appearance till August tlnee months after April, and three months after what the editor had written (as above extracted) had been published—or, in other words, these numbers were more than three months arriving from New-York, where they were executed—or else, what the editor says in the above extract cannot be account ed for, except we believe that it was penned with the design to deceive the disappointed patrons of his work. But in a printed slip accompanying these numbers, dated at Pen field, in August, tlie editor says, that “cir cumstances entirely beyond his control de layed the present issue, and he can only say that if precaution will prevent it, a similar delay will not hereafter occur.” We pass over this, however, as we have such fine promises of future punctuality. He says, “ the Artist is now in New-York, where he will remain during the issue of tlie future parts to secure tlieir seasonable appear ance.” Mark that! Again he says, “Our patrons may rest assured that the work will be completed, although the times are ruin ous to such an enterprize. We will finish it, moreover, in the style in which we are now executing it” Will you ? indeed, I should like to see a circumstance of it! “ and in order to give the engravers time to finish the plates in the finest possible style, we shall in future publish double parts at in tervals of two months instead of single parts monthly. Parts 5 and 6 will be published early in October.” In this extract we have several very fine promises, which were well calculated to raise the sinking hopes of con fiding patrons ; promises, too, made delib erately and voluntarily, even in the midst of “ times ruinous to such an enterprize.”— How were they fulfilled ? We shall see. The sth and Gtli parts were received—not in October, as was promised, but much later, as one may perceive by a glance at the title page —dated 1842! Well, we can pass over that. But, lo ! all the rest of the fine prom ises are as badly kept, for, instead of finish ing “ it in the same style,” it is to assume an entirely new shape, and take on an en tirely new feature. It is to become a “ lit erary magazine,” and “ Georgia Illustra ted” “to I loot.” Don’t promise so much, Mr. Editor of “Georgia Illustrated ;” these are not what we, your paying patrons, bar gained for, and we have already seen that they are exceedingly cheap—easily made, quite as easily broken—and you should have known ere this that a frequent failure to com ply with promises voluntarily made, will, after a while, impair one’s confidence in the veracity of the maker ; ’tis an old saying, that “ debtors full of promises are generally short of cash.” But to Nos. 5 and 6. The editor congratulates his patrons upon the completion of half the work. He has finished in a year what lie promised to do in six months. Better late than never. He congratulates them also upon certain chang es which he contemplates in the publication of the balance of tlie work. What are these changes ? It is to assume the character of a literary magazine, and to retain the char acter of an illustrated (mark that!) work, lie says, “ Besides tiie attractions of beauti ful engravings, we shall present,” &c. So the engravings are to be kept up—Georgia is to be illustrated yet —though the number of plates are to be fewer than before, still they are to be quite as nice ! His “ vanity whispers be will apjiear in his new dress, as in bis old, unrivalled .” ‘Twas a glorious thought that, the construction of safety-valves tor the escape of an excess of steam ; it is no less serviceable to human machines some times. But to the promises respecting the new and improved dress which seems so much to have tickled his vanity. “Our new garb also will completely obviate the delays in the issue of volume 1, which have annoyed ourself (save the mark !) no less than our patrons.” “We shall issue the 7th number, or No. 1, 2d series, at as early a day as pos sible, after which it will be mailed punctu ally (we shall see) on the first day of every month.” Now, Mr. Editor, you will perceive that after the expiration of one year—after the patience of the patrons of “ Georgia Illus trated” had well nigh been worn out —with hut six numbers of the work published —we are again humbugged in and promissory style, übout changes, improve ments, and various other things “tootedious to mention.” We are kindly informed that the engravings have cost far more than the uninitiated can imagine, and that the puhlit taste is not sufficiently elevated and refined t 4 appreciate such a work. Well, now, that is too had ! Because he, the editor, has failed in his contract with his patrons, and has found out that it costs money to have engraving done—though one would suppose he should have been initiated—and that every body is not so green, alias “ verdant,” as some oth ers of us have been, why, forsooth, he —an imported Georgian —flatly avers that the taste of our people is not elevated and refined enough to demand such a work as his. Ob, spare us, if you please, Mr. Editor of “Geor gia Illustrated!” Now, you should have re membered that truth is a very arbitrary thing—about which it will not do to quarrel —and tliut the Georgia folks, if desirous to be lectured and lashed fur a want of t9slc